


Once more with feeling

by Dr_SWeisenheimer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9492731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_SWeisenheimer/pseuds/Dr_SWeisenheimer
Summary: My very own phantasy of how season 4 could have gone.





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is my very first fan-fiction  
> \- no really, I have never written one before. But season 4 of Sherlock disappointed me big time so I felt the need to come up with something better, just for my own satisfaction at first but then I thought, 'What the hell, why not give it a go?' So here you are. This is my version of season 4 and it largely follows the original story arch, so you might not be as surprised by the 'twists'  
> \- I originally wrote the fic in my mother tongue which is not English so I'm very grateful for any corrections or advice to make it sound better  
> \- so consider yourself warned, I hope you enjoy it

A tiny shoe. Attached to the bag with several key rings. He kept playing with the shoe, turning and twisting it. Shuffling it from one hand to the other while he looked out the window lost in thought. Though it seemed like he was watching something outside his eyes didn't fixate on anything. The difference is easy to see, especially in a driving bus where every fixed point on the outside is moving past quickly which results in rapid, jumping movements of the eyes. But his eyes were all still. He didn't look at something on the outside, he looked at something on his inside.  
Then he stretched his back and sat upright. He suddenly became aware of having what he thought was an inappropriately intimate moment between all these strangers.   
He looked around, apologetic almost, when his eyes caught a young dark-haired woman, who had been watching him inconspicuously for a little while. She quickly looked down to her feet, when their eyes met. Ashamed of being caught in the act. This again amused him had he been the one feeling caught in the act just a second ago. Now he was the one watching. The unknown woman had big sweeping curls that debouched over her shoulders. Her skin was fair and her dark clothes amplified that tone, making her skin look like bisque porcelain. She looked delicate and frail. And very beautiful. She raised her eyes without raising her head and looked straight at him. There was something in her expression, in these blue eyes of her, that he could not quite read but before he could think about it any further she laughed, a short disarming giggle. And he joined in.

On the way from the bus stop to the front door John went through all the facts again. Not that he had many of those, but he got used to it and there really was no reason to feel miffed about it. So what did he know? Well, Angus Butcher was charged of murder, it was proven beyond doubt that he was at the scene of the crime at the time of the crime. Sherlock however could also prove beyond doubt that Butcher was in a totally different place at the time of the crime. They had been on this case for some days now and John for one was not a bit closer to solving it. He was just fishing his keys out of his pocket, when suddenly a mental picture of dark hair in big sweeping curls emerged in his mind's eye. Mary. Though John had lived with Mary for about five years now, he still owned his keys for 221B. Mrs. Hudson insisted and Sherlock, well, he never took issue. In fact it seemed he took John's presence for granted and since Sherlock never noted his absence anyway John figured there was not much of a difference whether he lived in Baker Street or not. John had just entered the upper apartment, when he could hear the famliar sonorous voice of Sherlock.  
"No, it's too thick. Light won't pierce through and you won't see anything. Try it again."  
Sherlock had a visitor. This was not only unusual, this was impossible. John knew that both Mary and Molly were still working this time of the day and Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, he could hear her vacuum when he entered the house. And Mycroft or Greg, well, Sherlock would never strike such a tender tone with them. John smiled. But then a horrible thought flashed his mind. He frowned and opened the door to the kitchen in a hurry. Indeed, there Sherlock was standing hands on his hips, looking over the shoulder of the blond-locked girl who was sitting on a stool, legs dangling in the air, a scalpel in her small hand.  
"What are you doing?"  
John tried not to sound angry as he knew Sherlock meant well. But a frigging scalpel? Both Sherlock and the girl looked up.  
"Oh, hello John."  
"Daddy!"  
The girl dropped the scalpel immediately, slid off the stool and rushed into John's arms. He welcomed her with a kiss on her forehead.  
"Sherlock let me look through the micopopes!"  
"Microscope." Sherlock set her straight from the kitchen.  
"You are giving her a scalpel?"  
"Well, you'll need specimens if you want to microscope, won't you?"  
John tried hard to stifle his anger. Sherlock only meant well. This had been his mantra for the past three years. Sherlock only meant well.  
"How could pick up Rosie anyway? You need a proxy for that."  
Sherlock, who tidied away the mess he and Rosie had made, turned his back on John. As he always did, when he became aware that he once again broke one of the many unwritten rules of John.  
"You really should consider another day care as this one is very lax with controlling signatures."  
"You have…?!" Sherlock only meant well, John, he only meant well. "Why did you pick up Rosie?" John kneaded his palms.  
"I need you today. There is a new case and…"  
"We are not going to take Rosie on a case!"  
"Well, of course not, John, how did you get that idea? Mrs Hudson will take care until Mary is here."

At the crime scene Sherlock and John were already awaited by Greg Lestrade. He came to meet them and greeted John with a friendly hug. No one else could understand what John was going through with Sherlock like Greg could. During the two years of Sherlock's supposed death he had been there for John, neither creeping around him with all the surveillance system of the Kingdom like Mycroft did nor pitying him like Mrs. Hudson and Molly did. They shared thoughts and feelings and memories as well, and this way a tight friendship between the two men formed over the years.  
Sherlock just passed the men and inspected the front door and porch.  
"What do you got for us?" no need to say that Sherlock didn't tell John anything.  
"Ted Edwards, retired Deputy Director of the FBI, he and his wife woke up this morning and found the body of a certain Paul Giulliani lying on their kitchen floor. Neither of them had heard either the alarm go off or the shot."  
"Couldn't Edwards himself be the perpetrator? As a former FBI-Agent, I'm sure you'd find a weapon somewhere between the sofa cushions."  
John followed Greg who entered the posh Edwards' townhouse.  
"That's the question, John. We could indeed identify one of Edward's guns as the weapon that fired the lethal shot. And we had to arrest Edwards as the main suspect. But as I said, both Mr. and Mrs. Edwards maintain his innocence. So, you know…"  
Sherlock turned around to Greg and looked down on him.  
"How embarassing it would be for Scotland Yard should someone of the rank of Edwards turn out to be in prison innocently."  
"Sherlock, please, just solve the case, would you?" Greg sighed deeply and Sherlock turned around grinning to himself as he took a look around the small entrance hall.  
"Done." he said and rushed past Greg and John outside again.  
The two of them looked at each other and followed Sherlock.  
"Well, it's only an assumption and I hope it doesn't prove to be true."  
John frowned as he followed Sherlock back to the street.  
"Don't you want to take a look around the house?"  
"Don't need to see more. As always, John, you see but you…"  
"Yes, I see but do not observe. I know."  
John sighed and Sherlock smiled at him and fished his mobile out of the pockets of his coat.  
"So," John tried again, "do you think Edwards is innocent?"  
"He is. But maybe I can prove otherwise."  
Sherlock didn't look up from his mobile while he held a hand up to stop a taxi. John was utterly confused and he tried to make sense of what Sherrlock has said and the things he knew. Both of which were much too few information to make anything of it. A pair of blue eyes appeared out of nowhere in his mind's eye. He shook his head, took a deep breath and entered the taxi that just held beside them. Sherlock was still busy with his mobile and wasn't about to explain anything when John turned to him and asked,  
"Do you think Moriarty has something to do with it?"  
Sherlocked looked up and watched John pensively.  
"I mean, some puzzle, a game, something he arranged before he…"  
"You could be right about that, John."  
John looked at Sherlock, now he was baffled. Should he really have been on the right track? He turned his face to the window again and watched the streets and houses passing by. Well, thinking about it he didn't want to be right about that.

"Sherlock picked up Rosie from the daycare today."  
"He faked our signatures?"  
Mary giggled and turned off the light, then she crossed the dark room and slipped into the bed, where John already laid and cuddled up close to him.  
"You do know this is a criminal offence, right?"  
"John."  
"We said, we'd never leave him alone with Rosie."  
"John! Rosie is three years old now and I think we have raised her to be a sensible little girl by now. She very well knows what is right or wrong. And I really can't think of anyone else who has as a good grip on Sherlock as Rosie does. And besides, she loves him. And he loves her."  
"I just don't want her to walk around crime scenes at the age of eight."  
Mary who had her head leaned against Johns shoulder giggled once again then it became silent in the bedroom and soon there was the regular breathing of the two of them to be heard.  
Later that night John woke up feeling slightly cold where Mary had laid a moment ago. He could hear her bare feet walking over the wooden floor and then the bathroom door close. John turned on his side trying to fall asleep again when pictures from his dream came to his consciousness. Pictures of a lean pale neck surrounded by swirls of dark brown hair. He saw a face with skin fair and soft like porcelain and eyes so vibrant blue, with a look so piercing. And inviting.  
John finally got up and went to the kitchen. He took a glass from the sink and filled it with water from the tap then he stood in the middle of the kitchen, indecisive and took a sip. Eventually he put the glass on the kitchen table, went into the hall where his jacket hung and reached into the pocket. He found what he was looking for, fetched it and went back into the kitchen to sit at the table. He put a folded piece of paper in front of him on the table and looked at it pensively. Then he took another sip and stood up. He sighed, went to leave the kitchen and turned off the light. But he stayed in the door frame for a moment, thinking and gently thrumming on the light switch. Eventually he turned the light on again and sat back at the table. John unfolded the paper. It revealed a filigree neat handwriting. Just a few numbers and a single letter. A phone number and the letter 'A'. 'A' with the skin of bisque porcelain, the blue eyes and the dark-brown ocean of curls. Should he send a message?  
"Daddy?" Rosie was standing in the door frame bare-footed and all sleepy.  
"Baby, what's the matter?"  
"I'm thirsty."  
John got her a glass of water and watched her emptying it. Then he put her back to bed, tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. He turned off the light as he left the room but he left her door ajar and waited until he heard Rosie's breath go regular. No, he wouldn't send a message.  
On the way back to the bedroom he passed the bathroom. Mary was still in there. John came close to the door.  
"Mary?" No answer. John knocked quietly at the door, asking slightly louder again,  
"Mary, are you okay?" Still no answer. John turned the handle of the door and opened it. The lights were on and it was all quiet.   
The bathroom was empty.   
The window was wide open.


	2. Mary

Not long until lunch break. There were only a handful of patients sitting in the waiting room, saying nothing to each other and avoiding eye contact. As if being sick and consulting a doctor was a crime. The awkward silence was drowned out by the unobtrusive sounds of a radio.

 "…where several classified files were stolen from the FBI-headquarters in Washington, D.C. Investigations are still…" reported an equanimous female voice.

On Mondays and Fridays when there are the most patients to be expected, there were always two receptionists present at the surgery. But on a Thursday noon not much is going on and so Mary was alone at the reception waiting for the lunch break and pondering where to go and grab a bite.

A buzzing noise from behind her woke Mary from her day-dreaming. Of course mobile phones were not well-received at the workplace but nobody payed Mary any attention. She glanced over the reception into the waiting room, where the patients still were busy not to attract attention and so weren't paying any attention either. Mary turned around to the shelf to pick up her phone. Probably a message from John. He and Sherlock were investigating a case again and he was probably asking Mary to pick up Rosie from the daycare. Or maybe it was Sherlock. He often asked for her opinion, though of course he always had his mind made up already. It was a nice touch of him, so that Mary wouldn't feel left out. A fact that miffed her a little, as she felt like a child whom Sherlock was giving some kind of consolatory treat. But then again, whom did Sherlock not treat like a child? Mary smiled as it crossed her mind that there was such a person, in fact the only person he didn't treat like a child was a child, Rosie.

She unlocked her phone and looked at the small screen. That was strange. A message from an unknown number. Mary frowned and opened the message. Her eyes widened. No, this was impossible. She read the message again. And then again. And again. This couldn't be true! She threw the phone over her desk in horror and looked over into the waiting room where the patients sat indifferently. Time seemed to have stopped. Mary could see how the black letters of the message stood out against the brightly illuminated background of the phone screen.

 

> HE IS COMING TO GET YOU, "MARY" XOXO JACK

Mary was unable to do or think anything. After what felt like an eternity that Mary sat scared stiff, the door of the exam room opened and out stepped the doctor together with a patient that he politely saw off. His eyes catched Mary who must have looked horrifying for the doctor's face went from caring to worried.

 "Mary, are you fine?"

In retrospect Mary couldn't recall what she answered him or if she answered at all. For a moment terror had struck and cast a damp on her but then Mary was determined again. She spent the lunch break at the surgery on her desk where she had her computer 'updated' with several programmes for hacking and spying a while ago. Mary knew exactly what to do. And by the end of her break she had all the information she needed. Tonight she would execute her plan and hopefully have her peace once and for all.


	3. Sherlock

John and Lestrade hugged each other welcome. Sherlock observed it out of the corner of his eye as he walked pass them to the Edwards' porch. He knew that their friendship was based on them wailing about him together. Was he jealous? No, he regarded this as one of those basic human needs for companionship. The feeling of being part of a group bringing shelter. Together they could protect themselves from outside threats. But as always people fail to see the obvious. This obligation to protection however inevitably results in situations where a threat to one means a threat to all. To Sherlock this was an incromprehensibly self-destructive trait of human existence.

So while John and Lestrade were indulging in cordialities Sherlock examined the porch. The intruder entered the house through a window next to the door. People always lock their doors but rarely the windows. But still this burglary was way more professional than the usual act of housebreaking. No broken glass, no signs of damage whatsoever. These were not simple thiefs looking for anything of worth. These were professionals who knew exactly what they were coming for. Sherlock was intrigued immediately. Who were they? What were they looking for? And why?

Lestrade just finished introducing John to the case.

"We could indeed identify one of Edward's guns as the weapon that fired the lethal shot. And we had to arrest Edwards as the main suspect. But as I said, both Mr. and Mrs. Edwards maintain his innocence. So, you know…"

Ted Edwards, ex-FBI-some-sort-of-chief who was currently remanded in custody, was indeed innocent. A shot in the dark, but Sherlock could rely on his intuition as much as on his power of deduction. He only needed to find evidence. And Sherlock usually did find evidence.

"How embarassing it would be for Scotland Yard should someone of the rank of Edwards turn out to be in prison innocently"

Lestrade gave a luke-warm answer and Sherlock found himself to be reassured about the accuracy of other people's intuition. Lestrade did believe that Edwards was innocent, too. Only he was desperately unable to observe the obvious.

All Sherlock needed was a short glance into the hallway, where his eyes caught a small screen that was flush-mounted into the wall next to a door. A touchscreen most certainly to control the local network to which all the electronical devices in this smart home were connected, including the alarm system of course. It was in fact not that difficult to hack into this kind of system and deactivate the alarm. Moreover Sherlock assumed that Edwards would most likely have a safe in the house that probably had an electronic lock that also could be selected and opened via the local network. And it's not too hard a guess what the safe of retired FBI Deputy Chief Ted Edwards might have contained. Even Lestrade could have figured it out, it was all over the news.

Sherlock had seen everything he needed to see. He knew who had shot the intruder. He had just got to find out why. As Sherlock cerebrated while simultaneously messaging Mycroft trying to find out about the stolen files from the FBI-headquarters and organizing a taxi, he answered Johns' questions and was surpised once more how much of the obvious most people fail to notice. Lestrade would not solve this case, he never even made an effort as soon as he had brought Sherlock onto a case. But John, John was slow admittedly but he was sure as death not stupid. And eventually he would solve it. And when this was happening Sherlock needed to have a plan ready.

John, Mary and Rosie were his companionship and he must protect it at any cost.

 

Sherlock looked at the body. Molly came here just to let him into the mortuary. In the middle of the night. Without permission. He didn't comprehend what Molly saw in him. Of course her devotion occurred to Sherlock from day one, but he simply failed to understand it. Yes, his mind was brilliant and people usually seemed to be either fascinated or irritated. And Sherlock surely could comprehend and not care less about both. But he couldn't wrap his mind around Molly's unconditional loyalty as he never quite answered her diffident approaches. But eventually he became aware of what this fragile, brave woman took upon herself. For him. Sherlock was deeply indebted to Molly, so deep in fact that he didn't know how to ever make up for it.

Well now these were the kind of thoughts and feelings Sherlock had since John Watson had stepped into his life. Or sentiment as Mycroft preferred to call them. Yes, sentiment was the reason why Sherlock was in the mortuary in the middle of the night. This case had been too easy. He knew the murderer as soon as he stepped onto the crime scene. He could have told Lestrade right away and Edwards would have been free by now. But this was different. This was about feelings. And this made the whole case a lot more complicated. Sherlock just hoped he was doing the right thing here, because feelings were not really his area.

In the nighttime silence of St. Bart's Sherlock recognised the silent steps of feet in sneakers on the linoleum covered floor coming closer. The faint squeaky sound stopped shortly behind him.

"Do you remember the first day we met? There was something I deduced about you. I thought it was just a little detail, irrelevant, and thus it never crossed my mind again. Until today."

Sherlock pointed to a spot of the dead body. On the side of his chest, right under his armpit was a small tattoo, the silhouette of a buffalo's head.

"I assume all of you have got the same, don't you, Mary?"

Sherlock turned around to Mary who looked him in the eyes, unfazed.

"When Lestrade asked me to help him with this case I knew it has got something to do with the stolen FBI files. I pestered Mycroft about them. They attest to a case from 13 years ago, when a group of criminals hold the FBI at bay with several bank heists throughout the country. Those included not only robbery but also cybercrimes, fraud, forgery, taking of hostages and murder. The group scammed about 23 million US-Dollars, the biggest series of heists in US history. The police was hopelessly swamped with the case, so it was devolved unto the FBI, that couldn't get hold of the group either. But then one of the FBI-Agents assigned to the case was contacted by an anonymous informant that gave away all the identities of the group members and one by one was arrested. All but one, the wife of the group's boss Jack Douglas, Mrs. Rosamund Douglas. Her whereabouts could never be clarified."

Mary gasped and averted her gaze from Sherlock.

"You are Rosamund Douglas and the anonymous informant, aren't you, Mary? And you broke into the Edwards' house to get hold of the files. But unfortunately Paul Giulliani had the same idea that night. He threatened to kill you for betraying the group and putting him and the others to jail, so you killed him first."

Silence thick as jelly spread betweem them. Sherlock stared at Mary, Mary stared at the body and the body's dead eyes stared at the ceiling.

"Mary, I was talking to Ted Edwards, he said he received a message to look for Mary Morstan. This message was signed by Jack Douglas. But Jack Douglas died seven years ago. Who is after you?"

"I don't know." Mary turned her head to look at Sherlock, half anxious half decisive. "And it doesn't matter. Paulie has come here to kill me. They will all come one by one, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do? I can't shoot them all. We can't go to the police or Scotland Yard and I even doubt that Mycroft could do anything about it. I am a fraud. I tried to run from my misdeeds. I tried to be a good person. A good wife. A good mother. But I'm still a fraud and a criminal."

Mary's voice started to shake as she spoke and Sherlock came close to her and took her into his arms.

"No, Mary, I made a vow to protect you and I will. We will find a way, I promise you that."

He could feel Mary shaking in his arms and heard her quietly sob.

"I don't want another life than this of Mary Watson."

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Oh, Mary…" he whispered into the thick nighttime silence of St. Bart's.


End file.
